VIII.

"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away."—Job 1:22.

The news startled the young city of Willowby from the Honorable Mayor to the newest comer in the place. The railroad company had found a shorter route to its northern main line, and it had been decided to remove, or, at least, to abandon for a time, the road running through the valley. The short cut would save fifty miles of roadbed and avoid some heavy grades, but it would leave the town of Willowby twenty-five miles from the railroad. Everybody said it would be a death-blow to the place. Petitions and propositions from the citizens to the railroad company availed nothing.

The most diresome predictions came true. After the change, the life of the young town seemed to wither away. Its business almost ceased. The speculator whose tenement houses were without roof, hurriedly closed them in, and so let them stand. Safer is the farmer, in such times. His fields will still yield the same, let stocks and values in real estate rise and fall as they will.

Alderman Rupert Ames had been attending the protracted meetings of the city council; this, with other business, kept him away from home for a week. This was the explanation which he gave to his mother when he at last came home.

"Rupert," she said to him, "you must not worry so. I see you are sick—you're as pale as death now. Is there anything the matter, my boy?"

Rupert seated himself on the sofa, resting his face in his hands, and looked into the fire. He was haggard and pale.

"Mother—yes, mother, something's the matter but I cannot tell you, I cannot tell you."

The mother sank beside him. "Rupert, what is it, are you sick?"

"No, dear mother, I'm not sick—only at heart." He put his arms around her neck and resting his head on her shoulder, began to sob.

It had been a long time since she had seen her boy shed tears.

"Mother," he sprang to his feet and forced himself to talk, "I must tell you. The bank has failed and—and—I have not always told you of my business transactions, mother. I now owe more than we are worth in this world. I have been investing in real estate. I paid a big price for the Riverside Addition, and the paper I asked you to sign was a mortgage on the farm to secure a loan. Mother, I thought it was a good investment, and it would have been had the railroad remained, but now property has sunk so low that all we own will not pay my debts. And the bank has failed also—O mother!"

"My son, do not carry on like that. If the worst comes, we still have the farm, haven't we?"

"You do not understand, mother; our creditors can take that, too."

Then she also broke down, and at sight of her tears the son gained control of his own feelings, and tried to comfort his mother. She should never want as long as he had two strong hands with which to work, he assured her. All would be right in the end. "What I have done, I can do again, mother; and though if it comes to the worst, it will be hard, I am young yet, and have life before me."

For an hour they sat on the sofa with their arms around each other, talking and planning; and then when they became silent, the pictures they saw in the glowing coals partook of a log house, a dreary sagebrush plain, and the building of canals and reservoirs.

The worst did come. They could, perhaps, have retained a part of Ames farm, but they decided to give up everything, pay their debts, and face the world honorably. So, before Christmas, everything had been cleared up, and Widow Ames was installed in a neat three-roomed house nearer town, for which they paid a monthly rental.

Miss Virginia Wilton was on a visit to her "folks in the East." Rupert both longed and feared for her return. In his letters he had said nothing about the change in his affairs. He would wait until her return, and then he would explain it fully to her. He had decided, for her sake, to propose to her the postponement of their marriage until spring. He would certainly be better prepared then. It would be a sacrifice on his part, but Virginia would be wise enough to see its advisability. Yes, they would counsel together, and Virginia's love would be the power to hold him up. After all, the world was not so dark with such a girl as Virginia Wilton waiting to become his wife.

The day after her return to Willowby, Rupert called on her. Mrs. Worth, the landlady, responded to his knock, and said that Virginia had gone out for the day. She was, however, to give him this note if he called.

Rupert took the paper and turned away. He would find her at some neighbor's. He carefully broke the envelope and read:

Dear Mr. Ames:As I have accepted a position to teach in another state, I shall have to leave Willowby tomorrow. I shall be too busy to see you, and you have too much good sense to follow me. Forget the past. With kindest regards, I am,Virginia Wilton.

Dear Mr. Ames:

As I have accepted a position to teach in another state, I shall have to leave Willowby tomorrow. I shall be too busy to see you, and you have too much good sense to follow me. Forget the past. With kindest regards, I am,

Virginia Wilton.

Nina was married on the first of the year. Widow Ames died about two weeks after.

And so life's shifting scenes came fast to Rupert Ames; and they were mostly scenes of dreariness and trial; but he did not altogether give up. Many of his friends were his friends still, and he could have drowned his sorrow in the social whirl; but he preferred to sit at home during the long winter evenings, beside his fire and shaded lamp, and forget himself in his books. He seemed to be drifting away from his former life, into a strange world of his own. He lost all interest in his surroundings. To him, the world was getting empty and barren and cold.

The former beautiful valley was a prison. The hills in which his boyhood had been spent lost all their loveliness. How foolish, anyway, he began to think, to always live in a narrow valley, and never know anything of the broad world without. Surely the soul will grow small in such conditions.

Early that spring, Rupert packed his possessions in a bundle which he tied behind the saddle on his horse and bade good-bye to his friends.

"Where are you going, Rupe?" they asked.

But his answer was always, "I don't know."

"No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless, afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them that are exercised thereby."—Heb. 12:11.

Rupert Ames had ridden all day, resting only at noon to permit his horse to graze. As for himself, he was not tired. The long pent-up energy had begun to escape, and it seemed that he could have ridden, or walked, or in any way worked hard for a long time without need of rest. Move, move he must. He had been dormant long enough; thinking, thinking, nothing but that for months. It would have driven him mad had he not made a change. Where was he going? No one knew; Rupert himself did not know; anywhere for a change; anywhere to get away, for a time, from the scenes and remembrances of the valley and town of Willowby.

At dark he rode into a village at the mouth of a gorge. Lights gleamed from the windows. A strong breeze came from the gorge, and the trees which lined the one stony street all leaned away from the mountain. Rupert had never been in the place before, but he had heard of Windtown. Was there a hotel? he asked a passer-by. No; but they took lodgers at Smith's, up the hill. At Smith's he, therefore, put up his horse and secured supper and bed. Until late at night he walked up and down Windtown's one street, and even climbed the cliffs above the town.

Next morning he was out early, and entered the canyon as the sun began to illumine its rocky domes and cast long shafts of light across the chasm. A summer morning ride through a canyon of the Rockies is always an inspiration, but Rupert was not conscious of it. Again, at noon, he fed his horse a bag of grain, and let him crop the scanty bunch-grass on the narrow hillside. A slice of bread from his pocket, dipped into the clear stream, was his own meal. Then, out of the canyon, and up the mountain, and over the divide he went. All that afternoon he rode over a stretch of sagebrush plain. It was nearly midnight when he stopped at a mining camp. In the morning he sold his horse for three twenty-dollar gold pieces, and with his bundle on his back, walked to the railroad station, a distance of seven miles.

"I want a ticket," said he to the man at the little glass window.

"Where to?"

"To—to—well, to Chicago."

The man looked suspiciously at Rupert, and then turned to a card hanging on the wall.

"Twenty-eight-fifty," he said.

Two of the gold pieces were shoved under the glass, and Rupert received his ticket and his change.

In the car, he secured a seat near the window that he might see the country. It was the same familiar mountains and streams all that day, but the next morning when he awoke and looked out of the car windows, a strange sight met his gaze. In every direction, as far as he could see, stretched the level prairie, over which the train sped in straight lines for miles and miles. "We must be in Kansas," he thought. "What a sight, to see so much level land."

But what was he going to do in Chicago? To see the world, to mingle in the crowd, to jostle with his fellow-beings—what else, he did not know.

Chicago! What a sight to the man of the mountains! Streets, houses, people and the continuous din and traffic of the city nearly turned his head for a time. What an ideal place in which to lose one's self. Rupert had a bundle no longer, but in his pocket just fifteen dollars and ten cents. He kept well out of the clutches of the sharpers in the city, and lived quite comfortably for a week, seeing the sights of the wonderful city. Then, when his money was getting low, he tried to get work, as he wished to remain longer. But Rupert was a farmer, and they were not in demand within the city limits. Outside the city, Rupert fell in with a body of travelers who were going West—walking, and riding on the trains when they had a chance. He joined them. Somehow, he had ceased to consider what his doings might lead to, and as for misgivings as to the company he was keeping, that did not trouble him. For many days there was more walking than riding. Rupert was not expert at swinging himself under the cars and hanging to the brakebeams, so he traveled with the more easy-going element, who slept in the haylofts at night and got what food they could from farmhouses, though Rupert hoarded his little store of money and usually paid for what he got. Then he lost all track of time. It must have been far into the summer when Rupert separated from his companions, and found himself at the base of the mountains. Here he spent his last cent for a loaf of bread.

That night Rupert felt a fever burning within him, and in the morning he was too weak to travel. He, therefore, lay in the hay which had served him for a bed until the sun shone in upon him; then he again tried to get out, but he trembled so that he crawled back into the loft and there lay the whole day. Towards evening he was driven out by the owner of the barn. Rupert staggered along until he came to another hayloft, which he succeeded in reaching without being seen. All that night he tossed in fever and suffered from the pains which racked his body. The next day a farmer found him, and seeing his condition, brought him some food. Then on he went again. His mind was now in a daze. Sometimes the mountains, the houses, and the fences became so jumbled together that he could not distinguish one from the other. Was he losing his mind? Or was it but the fever? Was the end coming?—and far from home, too—Home?—he had no home. One place was as good as another to him. He had no distinct recollection how he got to the usual hayloft, nor how long he lay there. It was one confused mass of pains and dreams and fantastic shapes. Then the fever must have burned out, for he awoke one night with a clear brain. Then he slept again.

On awakening next morning and crawling out, he saw the sun shining on the snow-tipped peaks of the mountains. He had dreamed during the night of his mother and Virginia and Nina, and the dream had impressed him deeply. His haggard face was covered with a short beard; his clothes were dirty, and some rents were getting large. Yes, he had reached the bottom. He could go no further. He was a tramp—a dirty tramp. He had got to the end of his rope. He would reach the mountains which he still loved, and there on some cliff he would lie down and die. He would do it—would do it!

All that day he walked. He asked not for food. He wanted nothing from any man. Alone he had come into the world, alone he would leave it. His face was set and hard. Up the mountain road he went, past farmhouse and village, up, farther up, until he reached a valley that looked like one he knew, but there was no town there, nothing but a level stretch of bench-land and a stream coursing down the lower part of the valley. Groves of pines extended over the foothills up towards the peaks. Up there he would go. Under the pines his bones would lie and bleach.

He left the wagon road, and followed a trail up the side of the hill. The sun was nearing the white mountain peaks. An autumn haze hung over the valley and made the distance dim and blue. The odor from the trees greeted him, and recalled memories of the time when, full of life and hope, he had roamed his native pine-clad hills. He was nearing home, anyway. The preacher had said that dying was only going home. If there was a hereafter, it could be no worse than the present; and if death ended all, well, his bones would rest in peace in this lone place. The wolf and the coyote might devour his flesh—let them—and their night howl would be his funeral dirge.

Far up, he went into the deepest of the forest. The noise of falling waters came to him as a distant hymn. He sat on the ground to rest, before he made his last climb. Mechanically, he took from his pocket a small book, his testament—his sole remaining bit of property. He opened it, and his eyes fell on some lines which he had penciled on the margin, seemingly, years and years ago. They ran as follows:

"'Tis sorrow builds the shining ladder up,Whose golden rounds are our calamities."

And the passages to which they pointed read:

"My son, despise not the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when thou art rebuked of him; for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye receive chastenings, God dealeth with you as with sons, for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?"

The book dropped from the reader's trembling grasp. It was then that the Angel of Mercy said, "It is enough," and touched the young man's heart. The long pent-up spring burst forth, and Rupert sobbed like a child. By a huge gray rock sheltered by the pines, he uttered his first prayer to God. For a full hour he prayed and wept, until a peaceful spirit overpowered him, and he slept.

Rupert awoke with a changed heart, though he was weak and faint. Evening was coming on and he saw the smoke curling from the chimney of a farmhouse half a mile below. Painfully, he made his way down to it.

A young man was feeding the cows for the night, and Rupert went up to him, and said:

"Good evening, sir; have you any objection to my sleeping in your barn tonight?"

The man eyed him closely. Tramps did not often come to his out-of-the-way place.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, sir."

"Then I have no objection, though I don't like tramps around the place."

"Thank you, sir."

The man moved off, but turned again. "Have you had any supper?" he asked.

"No; but I do not care for anything to eat, thank you."

"Strange tramp, that," said the man to himself, "not to want anything to eat. Well, go into the shanty and warm yourself, anyway."

In the shanty, Rupert found an old stove glowing with a hot fire, by the side of which he seated himself. The night was chilly in that high altitude, and Rupert spread out his palms to the warmth. Inside the house, he heard the rattle of dishes and the voices of women. Then strains of songs floated out to him, and he became an intent listener. Soon from out the humming came two sweet voices, singing. Rupert sat as one spellbound, as the song seemed to melt into his soul:

"O my Father, thou that dwellestIn the high and glorious place!When shall I regain thy presence,And again behold thy face?In thy holy habitation,Did my spirit once reside;In my first primeval childhood,Was I nurtured near thy side."For a wise and glorious purposeThou hast placed me here on earth,And withheld the recollectionOf my former friends and birth;Yet ofttimes a secret somethingWhispered, You're a stranger here;And I felt that I had wanderedFrom a more exalted sphere."I had learned to call thee Father,Through thy Spirit from on high;But until the Key of KnowledgeWas restored, I knew not why.In the heavens are parents single?No; the thought makes reason stare.Truth is reason; truth eternalTells me I've a mother there."When I leave this frail existence,When I lay this mortal by,Father, mother, may I meet youIn your royal courts on high?Then, at length, when I've completedAll you sent me forth to do,With your mutual approbationLet me come and dwell with you."

The door opened, and a young woman came out with a small tin pail in her hand. At sight of Rupert she gave a startled cry and backed to the door. Just then the young farmer passed through the shanty and explained that it was only a "traveler" warming himself. The young woman looked steadily at Rupert. The fire shone out from the open door of the stove, and the light danced on the rough board walls, throwing a halo of red around the girl.

"What a sweet picture," instantly thought Rupert.

Then she slowly advanced again, and, instead of pouring the contents of the pail into a larger dish as was her errand, she placed it on the table by Rupert, and said, smilingly:

"Vil you have a drink of varm milk?"

"Thank you, thank you."

Then she went back.

Warm milk! What could be more delicious? Rupert sipped the sweet fluid. How it invigorated him and surcharged him with new life. And given by such hands, with such a smile! It was a glimpse of past glories.

In the morning Rupert was asked if he wanted a job.

"Yes," was the answer.

"Can you work on a farm?"

"I've been a farmer all my life," was the reply. "I'm not a tramp, as you understand that term."

"Well, stay around today and I'll see what I can do. I want some help, but I cannot pay high wages."

"Never mind the wages," said Rupert, "we'll agree on that after a while."

The young farmer saw that he had no common tramp to deal with, although he looked rough and travel-stained.

"I have been sick for the past few days," explained Rupert, "and if you can trust me, I should like to rest up a bit before I go to work. I'm too weak to do you much good yet."

"That'll be all right," was the answer. "I see you need something to eat this morning, even if you weren't hungry last night. Come with me to the house."

So Rupert Ames remained with the farmer and did the chores around the house until he became stronger, when he helped with the harder work. He was treated kindly by them all, and it was not long before he mingled freely with the family.

During this time Rupert realized that his right senses, as he called them, were coming back to him, and every night he thanked God in vocal prayer for his deliverance from a dark pit which seemed to have yawned before him.

The Jansons were newcomers in the West, and had much to learn about farming. Mr. Janson was a Swede who had been in the country twenty years. His wife and her cousin were from Norway, the former having been in the country long enough to become Americanized; it was two years only since the latter had emigrated from her native land, so she spoke English with a foreign accent. Her name was Signe Dahl (first name pronounced in two syllables, Sig-ne). She attracted Rupert's attention from the first. She had a complexion of pink and white, blue eyes, soft, light hair; but it was not her peculiar beauty alone that attracted him. There was something else about her, an atmosphere of peace and assurance which Rupert could feel in her presence. Naturally, she was reticent at first, but on learning to know Rupert, which she seemed to do intuitively, she talked freely with him, and even seemed pleased with his company.

Two weeks went by, and Rupert proffered to remain with Mr. Janson and help him with his harvesting. The latter gladly accepted the offer, for he had by this time learned that Rupert Ames could give him many practical lessons in farming.

The song that Rupert heard that first evening continually rang in his ears. He remembered some of the words, and, as he thought of them, strange ideas came to him. One evening they were all sitting around the fire in the living room. Rupert had been telling them some of his history, and when the conversation lagged, he asked the two cousins to sing that song about "O my Father." They readily consented.

"A most beautiful song," said Rupert at its close; "and so strange. It seems to bring me back for an instant to some former existence, if that were possible. What does it mean:

'In thy holy habitation,Did my spirit once reside;In my first primeval childhoodWas I nurtured near thy side.'

"What does it mean?"

"Signe, you explain it," said Mr. Janson. "You know, you're a better preacher than I am."

Signe made no excuses, but went to the little bookshelf and took from it two books, her English and her Norwegian Bibles. She read for the most part from the English now, but she always had the more familiar one at hand to explain any doubtful passage.

"I vill do wat I can, Mr. Ames. I cannot read English good, so you must do de reading." She opened the book and pointed to the fourth verse of the thirty-eighth chapter of the book of Job. Rupert read:

"Where wast thou when I laid the foundation of the earth? declare, if thou hast understanding. * * * When the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"

"Yes," said the reader, "that is a great question, indeed. Where was Job? Why, he was not yet born."

"Who are de sons of God?" asked Signe.

"I suppose we—all of us, in a sense."

"Of course; and ve all shouted for joy when God He laid de foundation of de earth; so, ve must have been der, and known someting about it."

"Yes, but how could we? We were not yet born."

"No; not in dis world; but ve lived as spiritual children of our Fader in heaven."

"I don't know about that," remarked Rupert, doubtfully.

"Of course you don't. Dat's why I tell you."

They all smiled at that. Signe again turned the leaves of her Bible. "Read here," said she.

This time it was the first chapter of St. John. He read the first fourteen verses.

"Dat vil do; now read here." She returned to the sixth chapter, sixty-second verse, and he read:

"What and if ye see the Son of man ascend up to where He was before."

She turned to another. It was the twenty-eighth verse of chapter sixteen:

"I came forth from the Father, and am come into the world: again, I leave the world and go to the Father."

Still she made him read one more, the fifth verse of the seventeenth chapter:

"And now, O Father, glorify thou me with thine own self with the glory which I had with thee before the world was."

"Now, vat does it all mean, Mr. Ames?"

"I see your point, Miss Dahl. Christ certainly existed as an intelligent being before He came to this earth—yes, even before the world was."

"Certainly; our Savior vas himself as ve. He vas born, He had a body as ve, and He also had a spirit. God is de Fader of His spirit and it existed long ago, as you said. Christ is our Elder Broder. Ve are of de same family. If He existed before de vorld, why not ve? Dat's right, isn't it?"

"But couldn't Christ have been the only one who had a pre-existence? I believe something is said in your book about the Savior being the only begotten of the Father."

"Yes, in de flesh; dat is true, but God is de Fader of all spirits who have come to dis world to take a body. I can find you many passages to prove it."

"Well, I have never thought of these things before, but it must be true if the Bible means what it says. That's a grand principle, Mr. Janson."

"It certainly is, Mr. Ames. Many people object to it; but I cannot see, if we are to exist in a spiritual state after we leave this body, why we could not have existed before we entered it—but Signe, here, is the preacher. Her only trouble is with the w's and th's. She can't get them right yet."

Signe smiled. "No, Mr. Ames, I'm no preacher. It's all so plain to me. De Bible says ve have a Fader in heaven, and I believe it. I also believe ve have 'a moder der,' as de song says. I can't prove it from de book, but I just use my reason on dat."

It was a new experience for Rupert to hear a fair lady expound such doctrine. The whole thing charmed him, both the speaker and that which was spoken. A new light seemed to dawn upon him. What if this life was but a school, anyway, into which eternal souls were being sent to be proved, to be taught.

"Have you any other quotations on the subject?

"Oh, yes; it is full," said she. "When you get time read Heb. 12:9. Jer. 1:4-5. Eph. 1:3-5 and John 9:1-3. I do not remember more now."

Rupert took them down, and read them that night before he went to bed. And each day he saw a new horizon; and the sweet-faced Norwegian was not the least factor in this continued change of mental vision. "God bless her," he said to himself, "God has sent her to me for a purpose;" and he began to add to his prayers that he might so live that he would be worthy of the blessings which, seemingly, were coming his way.

"Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone"—James 2:17.

Chamogo Valley lies on the edge of the great arid region of America. At the time of Rupert Ames' arrival in the valley, full crops were never certain, and during some years, rain was so scarce that there were no crops at all. The Chicago real estate dealer who had sold Mr. Janson his land had not enlightened him on this fact, and so he had already lost the best part of two years' work by failure of crops. Rupert Ames learned of all this from Mr. Janson, and then he wondered why advantage was not taken of the stream in the bottom of the valley for irrigation purposes.

One day—it was near the end of the harvest, and they were pitting their last potatoes—Rupert asked Mr. Janson if the adjoining lands could be bought.

"Why, yes," was the reply. "I was offered nearly the whole valley for a small sum, but I have all the land I care to handle. You see, this region would be different if we could rely on the moisture, but we can't, and I am nearly tired of it myself. Do you want to buy me out?" This with a laugh.

"Can you raise money enough to buy this whole valley?" asked Rupert seriously.

"Yes; I could get it."

"Then I am going to propose something to you."

Whereupon Rupert pointed out that the rich bench lands on each side of the river could be brought under cultivation, and crops secured every year by bringing the water from the stream in canals, and watering, or irrigating them. Mr. Janson listened with wonder at Rupert's description of Dry-bench reservoir, and how simple it would be to construct canals by which to water Chamogo valley.

"This valley can be made to support a good-sized population," said Rupert. "By securing the land and digging canals to it, and then selling it out in farms again—well, if you don't make a hundred per cent on your investment, I am mistaken."

They had many talks on the scheme, and at last it was decided to try it. Rupert would supervise the construction of the canals. He would remain during the winter, do what work could be done before the snow came, and then continue the work in the spring.

The land was secured at a small outlay. The canal was surveyed and a little digging was done that fall. When the snow came, Rupert rode twenty-one miles to the county seat, took the teachers' examination, received a certificate, and obtained the Chamogo district school for the winter. It was a new experience for him, and a trying one at first. The big boys came to school to get out of the storm, and incidentally, to learn something of the three R's. They were often wild, but Rupert managed them without doing any "licking," the usual mode of discipline. He now wrote to his sister Nina, and told her that he was located for the winter; that he expected to get back to Willowby, but not for a time.

So the winter months passed. Rupert studied his own lessons when he was not preparing for his day's work. He made frequent visits to the Jansons, though it was a good three miles' drive. He was always received as a friend, and, indeed, was treated as one of the family.

Was it strange that a tie should grow between Rupert Ames and Signe Dahl? Was it anything out of the way that Rupert's trips became more frequent, and that the fair-haired Norwegian looked longingly down the road for the school-master's horse?

Rupert did not try to deceive himself. It had been a year only since his experience with Virginia Wilton. He had thought that he never would get over that, but even now he could look back on it with indifference, yes, even with thankfulness. This love which seemed to be coming to him was different from that first experience. He could not explain this difference, but he knew that it existed. Rupert had no misgivings. Signe did not thrill him, did not hold him spell-bound with her presence. No; it was only a calm, sweet assurance that she was a good girl, that he loved her, and that she thought well of him. Their conversations were mostly on serious, but deeply interesting subjects. Signe, in common with her cousin and Mr. Janson, had religious views of her own, which were peculiar, at least to Rupert. Nothing more than the common doctrines of the Christian denominations had Rupert ever heard. Signe knew her Bible well, and she could find wonderful things within its lids, teachings which were new to Rupert, but which opened to him a future, a bright, glorious future, full of possibilities. Besides, they explained to him many of the mysteries of life and answered many of its hard questions.

Thus one evening—it was Friday, and he lingered longer on that evening—Mr. and Mrs. Janson were visiting neighbors, and Rupert and Signe were alone. They sat by the kitchen stove, and the blazing pine wood made a lamp unnecessary. Signe had received a letter from home which she had translated to Rupert. Her father had long since forgiven her. The few dollars she sent home now and then multiplied to quite a fewkronerby the time they reached Norway, and they helped the struggling family. After old country topics had been exhausted, the conversation had drifted to religious themes, and especially to the doctrine expressed in the song "O my Father;" but they now sat silently looking into the fire. Their chairs were not far apart, and it was an easy matter for Rupert to lay his hand over Signe's fingers that rested on the arm of her chair and draw them closely into his big palm.

"Signe," he said, "if we ever lived as intelligent beings in a pre-existent state—and I now can not doubt it,—we two knew each other there. Perhaps we were the closest friends, and I have just been letting my imagination run wild in contemplating the possibilities."

"Let me tell you someting—thing. Did I get tha-at right?"

"You get the th as well as I, and the w's trouble you no more."

"Only sometimes I forget, I was going to say, you remember the first night you came here?"

"I certainly do;" and he pressed her fingers a little closer.

"Well, I seemed to know you from the first. Though you looked bad and like a tramp, I knew you were not, and I felt as if I had known you before."

They were silent again, "reading life's meaning in each other's eyes."

Signe filled the stove from the box beside it.

"You remember that book you gave me to read the other day, Signe?"

"Yes; what do you think of it?"

"I have been thinking considerably about it. It sets forth gospel doctrine altogether different from what I have ever heard; still it agrees perfectly with what Christ and His disciples taught. You know, I have always been taught that man is a kind of passive being, as regards the salvation of his soul; that everything has been done for him; that, in fact, it would be the basest presumption on his part to attempt to do anything for himself; that man is without free agency in the matter; that he is simply as a lump of clay, and with little more intelligence or active powers."

"I know all about such teachings," said Signe, as she went for her Bible. "They were drilled into me in the old country."

"Now," continued he, "I see that such doctrines lower man, who is, in fact, a child of God. I cannot perceive that an Allwise Parent would thus take away the agency of His children. We have a motto in school which says: 'Self effort educates,' and I believe that to be the only principle upon which we can safely grow, if we are to become like unto our Eternal Father."

"Yes," answered Signe, "but you must remember one thing, that 'as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.' The resurrection from the dead comes through Christ without any effort on our part. We were not responsible for Adam's transgression, therefore we are redeemed from its effects through the atonement of Christ, all mankind are, both good and bad—all will arise and stand before God to be judged by the deeds done in the body."

"Yes; I admit all that; but it is hardly plain to me what we must do to be freed from our individual sins. We are in the midst of sin. We are in a mortal state and partake of our surroundings. Now, there must be a plan by which we may be rid of these imperfections, for if we are ever to live in the presence of God, it seems to me that we must be pure and holy, without sin."

Signe had her book open. "I will read here an answer to your question," she said. "You remember that on the day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit was given, Peter preached to a large crowd of people. Many of them believed, and being pricked in their hearts, they said: 'Men and brethren, what shall we do?' You know they are not the only ones who have asked that question."

"No, you are right."

"'And Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.' That's plain enough, isn't it? Words can make it no clearer. When Peter saw that they had faith, he told them to repent, then be baptized for the remission of their sins, then they would get the Holy Ghost."

"And the promise was to them and to their children and to them that were afar off. Signe, is it not to us also?" Rupert asked, eagerly, "why shouldn't it be?"

"The promise is not limited—it is to you and to me. I, Rupert, have obeyed Peter's word, and have received the promise. You may do the same, and the same blessings will follow. The gospel is a law, a natural law, and oh, such a beautiful one!"

"Why haven't I heard this before?" exclaimed he. "Why isn't it written in our books, and taught us in our childhood? Signe, I am a bit bewildered yet."

"Rupert," said she, with a smile that had something of sadness in it, "the world is 'Ever learning but never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.' 'Darkness has covered the earth and gross darkness the people.' 'And as with the people, so with the priest.' 'The earth also is defiled under the inhabitants thereof; because they have transgressed the laws, changed the ordinance, broken the everlasting covenant.' Is there any wonder that you have not heard these doctrines before? Though you may read about them in the Bible, the world has been without their living presence for many hundreds of years. But a new time has come to the world. The gospel in its fulness and purity has been restored. We read here that John, on the Isle of Patmos, saw that in the latter days an angel would 'fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach to them that dwell on the earth.' That angel has come, Rupert, that gospel has been restored; and what I have been telling you are the teachings of that gospel. Man is again endowed with power from on high to preach the gospel and administer its ordinances to those who believe."

Rupert listened with deepest interest. He became as a disciple at her feet. They talked far into the night, and when Mr. and Mrs. Janson came home they found them bending low over the fire reading from the "good old book." Their heads were close together, the dark-brown one and the one of soft, silken tresses.

"I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith."—II Tim. 4:7.

Rupert was now continually thinking of the great questions of life. Never before had he been so stirred in his feelings; never before had he contemplated life in the light which now came to him. His heart was full of love, gratitude, and praise which swelled within him, and seemed to take possession of his whole being.

The winter passed, and Rupert closed his school. He came to the conclusion that school teaching was not his forte, though the people were satisfied with his work. He longed to be out digging ditches. He liked it far better, and conjectured that in this world his mission was to make the physical deserts to blossom as the rose.

During the summer, Chamogo valley did undergo a change. One side of the valley was brought under irrigation, and a number of farms were sold at a good profit. Mr. Janson did right by Rupert, and together they worked and prospered.

And that which now filled Rupert's cup of happiness was the fact that he had rendered obedience to the gospel of Jesus Christ, and had received the promised gifts and blessings following. The light that leadeth into all truth was his. With Signe and her co-religionists, he could now see eye to eye, all having the same glorious hope for the future.

One more winter passed; and when nature had spread her robe of green over Chamogo valley, preparations were made for the ceremony that would make Rupert and Signe husband and wife. Rupert longed to see Willowby and Dry Bench once more, so it was decided that after they had visited the Temple of God and had been sealed to each other for time and all eternity, they would take a trip to Rupert's old home. They were married in the Temple. Within its sacred walls they experienced more fully than ever before what still sweetness there is in the ministrations of the Spirit of God.

They reached Willowby late in September. He had written Nina when he would be there, and she and her husband were at the station to meet them.

There were tears in their eyes at the meeting.

"Nina, this is my wife," said Rupert. "Signe, my sister, Mrs. Furns."

A number of Rupert's old friends were there who now came forward and welcomed him home.

Then they rode through the valley behind two spirited grays. Nina had not changed much, but she declared that had she met her brother on the street, she would not have known him.

"What has changed you so, brother?" asked she.

"Experience, Nina, experience with the world I have lived a long time in the two and a half years that I have been away—but never mind that now. Everything looks the same hereabouts. I seem to have been absent but a few days. How strange it is! Signe, there you see Willowby, on that rise; quite a town yet. How's Dry Bench, James?"

"Much the same, Rupe. No improvements since you left."

"And the reservoir?"

"As you left it, though it needs repairing badly."

In the few moments of silence that followed, Rupert contrasted his condition now with what it was when he left the place. What a change! He was wiser if not much older. And then he had a wife—and he looked lovingly at her as he thought of all she had done for him. As they drove into town, friends greeted him and seemed pleased at his return. Married? Yes; that is his wife. Not so dashing as Miss Wilton, but far more charming, was the general expression.

That evening there was quite a social gathering at Nina's.

Early next morning, before others of the household were astir, Rupert and Signe went up to Dry Bench. A beautiful morning greeted them. They walked up towards the hill that they might get a good view of the farm, and when they turned, Dry Bench was before them. The trees had grown, but otherwise it was the same scene that he had looked upon many and many a time. The memory of a particular morning came to him—the morning when Miss Wilton's horse had run away. Miss Wilton had never been heard of since she left Willowby.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed Signe. "Do you know, Rupert, it reminds me of a scene in Norway. I must make a sketch here before we leave."

"Sit down on this rock," said he, "while I tell you something. Here's my overcoat." He made a seat for her and he stood by her side.

"Signe, nearly six years ago, I stood here on this spot. I was the owner of the farm that you see. In fact, I dug this ditch. I set out that orchard, I planned and built the reservoir that has made all this possible; and then I stood here, and in the pride of my heart I said: 'All this is mine. I have done it all.' Now I understand that God put me on trial, lent me some of His riches to try me, and then, seeing that I was not in a condition to stand such favors, took them all from me. Yes, it was a blessing in disguise. Darling, for this knowledge I am indebted to you," and he leaned over and kissed her.

"There you are wrong again," she said; "what about God above?"

"You are right. 'Tis He only who should have our gratitude. You have been but an instrument in His hand. I see it all. O Father, forgive my foolish thoughts." He uncovered his head, as if in prayer.

He sat down with her on the stone. The smoke began to rise from the chimneys of the town below, and soon the Dry Bench farm-houses showed signs of life. He pressed her cheek against his own.

"Sweetheart," said he, "'When love has blended and molded two beings in an angelic and sacred union, they have found the secret of life; henceforth they are only the two terms of the same destiny, the two wings of one mind. Love and soar.' That is from Victor Hugo; how true it is."

After a time they went down to the old home. A Mr. Temming was living there, as a renter. He was not acquainted with Mr. Ames, and was not disposed to show much courtesy, so they left.

"What do you think of the place?" he asked.

"I like it."

"Could you live there?"

"All my life, I could. Rupert, I see you in every tree, fence, and ditch."

He laughed at that.

"I can now buy the place. Shall I?"

"Yes, do."

"You don't object? Would you really like to live there?"

"I think, my dear, that you can do much good here. We ought to live where we can do the most good."

And so it was settled. Next day Rupert inquired after the owner of the farm which once was his, and learned that it was in the hands of a real estate dealer. He made his way to the office and knocked at the door, which was partly open. A man was sitting at a desk, but he evidently did not hear, so Rupert stepped into the room, at the same time giving the door another loud rap. Still the man did not hear.

"Good morning, sir," said Rupert.

The man turned.

"Volmer, Volmer Holm, is it you?"

"Rupert Ames, I'm pleased to see you. When did you come to town? Have a chair."

"Are you in the real estate business?"

"I can't hear very well, and you'll have to speak at close range, Rupe."

So they put their chairs close together, and Rupert repeated his last question.

"Yes, a man must do something; but there's nothing going on now—nothing in our line."

Rupert looked in pity at his friend. Quite shabbily dressed he was, and a careworn expression on his face made him look ten years older. He wore glasses, which he pushed up on his forehead, and then took a good look at Rupert.

"Well, well, Rupe, and where have you been keeping yourself? An' I've had luck, I tell you—you haven't heard, perhaps?"

"No; I haven't. What's it been, Volmer?"

"Was getting fifty dollars a week leading the orchestra at the Grand in Chicago, when I got sick. Don't know what it was, Rupe—the doctors didn't know. Got into my ears, and that knocked me—couldn't tell one note from another; so, of course, that let me out. Hard luck, Rupe, hard luck. Tough world this, Rupe. Why God Almighty crams a fellow's head full of music, and then disables him so's he can't make use of it, I don't know—I don't know."

Rupert sympathized with his friend, and then told him of his errand. A ray of sunshine seemed to enter the musician's life. The property was for sale, yes, and cheap, dirt cheap; so the transaction was partly arranged, and Volmer Holm went home to his wife and four children with quite a happy heart that day.

"It's too bad about Volmer Holm," said Rupert to his sister. "I had not heard of his misfortune. Such a genius in music, too."

"Well, I don't know," answered Nina, "it may be all for the best. Rumor had it that he was fast getting into bad ways in Chicago; and some men are better off by being poor, anyway."

"Yes, that's so," was all he said.

Rupert Ames was again the owner of Dry Bench farm, and the next spring they moved into the old home. Mr. and Mrs. Janson came with them to visit, but their interests in Chamogo would not allow of a protracted stay. Signe was already in love with her new home. With her taste for the artistic, she soon had the place comfortable, and Rupert was never more satisfied than when he came in where his wife's adept fingers had been at work to adorn. It was the dear old home to him with an added beauty, lacking only his mother's presence to make it perfect.

Then they sent for Signe's family. It was hard for the father to make ends meet in his native land, and Rupert needed just such help as Hr. Dahl could give. In due time they arrived, and were installed in a cottage near Rupert's farm.

In peace and prosperity, the days, months, and years went by; and Rupert Ames became a light to the surrounding world, and a teacher of righteousness to his brethren.

It was the sixth year after Rupert's return that the citizens of the Bench decided to enlarge the reservoir in Dry Hollow. Rupert was given the work to supervise, and he entered upon the task with his usual energy.

That morning in September, when he gave his wife the usual departing kiss, the children—four of them, were hanging about his legs and clinging to his coat in great glee.

"Now papa must go," said he, as he tried to shake them off.

"A kiss, another kiss," "A tiss, some more tisses," they shouted.

So he lifted them up, one by one, and kissed them again. Then his arm went around his wife's neck, and he drew her face to his.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," said he, "take care of the children, and don't forget me," and he tried to hum a song as he walked to the gate. Signe stood watching him. The tune which floated back to her was, "O, my Father." Then a peculiar feeling came over her, and she sat down crying, while the children climbed over her with questions and comforting words.

Terrible news from Dry Hollow! A blast, prematurely exploded, had seriously injured some of the workmen, and Rupert Ames had been killed—hurled down the ravine and nearly buried under falling rock.

Break the news gently to his wife and children. Do not let them see that bruised, bleeding form. Spare them all you can.

Yes; it was all done—all that lay in human power was done; and hundreds of people to whom Rupert Ames had opened up new light, and in the providence of God, had given them a tangible hope of the future, gathered around his body and mingled their tears with those of his children's.

Another immortal soul's earthly mission was ended. Life's school had closed for him. Into another sphere he had gone. The Great Schoolmaster had promoted him.

And Mrs. Signe Ames, after it all, simply said:

"God knows best. He has but gone before. He was my husband for time, he is my husband for eternity. His mission is there, mine is here. In the morrow, we shall meet again."

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